His mother smiled. “Oh, it isn't a question of the wisdom of your choice; it's the unexpectedness. We all saw that you were very unhappy when you were here before, and we supposed it had gone wrong.”
“It had, mother,” said Dan. “She refused me at Campobello. But it was a misunderstanding, and as soon as we met—”
“I knew you had met again, and what you had come home for, and I told your father so, when he came to say you were here.”
“Did you, mother?” he asked, charmed at her having guessed that.
“Yes. She must be a good girl to send you straight home to tell us.”
“You knew I wouldn't have thought of that myself,” said Dan joyously. “I wanted to write; I thought that would do just as well. I hated to leave her, but she made me come. She is the best, and the wisest, and the most unselfish—O mother, I can't tell you about her! You must see her. You can't realise her till you see her, mother. You'll like each other, I'm sure of that. You're just alike.” It seemed to Dan that they were exactly alike.
“Then perhaps we sha'n't,” suggested his mother. “Let me see her picture.”
“How did you know I had it? If it hadn't been for her, I shouldn't have brought any. She put it into my pocket just as I was leaving. She said you would all want to see what she looked like.”
He had taken it out of his pocket, and he held it, smiling fondly upon it. Alice seemed to smile back at him. He had lost her in the reluctance of his father and sisters; and now his mother—it was his mother who had given her to him again. He thought how tenderly he loved his mother.
When he could yield her the photograph, she looked long and silently at it. “She has a great deal of character, Dan.”